


Kaas City, Dusk

by squidhat



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Childbirth, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidhat/pseuds/squidhat
Summary: The Wrath gives birth to her first child; her inner circle and friends stand guard. post-Corellia.





	Kaas City, Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is totally indulgent, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out. I'm totally charmed by the idea of Quinn wanting to be a father.

Zayetana knelt on the bed, her legs slightly apart, feet beneath her hips. Both of her hands rested on her large belly. Her eyes were closed, and through her parted lips, she breathed slow and deep, each exhalation purposeful and filled with energy. At the arrival of each labor pain, her face became drawn and tensed, but the only sounds that she made came from the air that moved in and out of her lungs.

Jaesa meditated on the floor next to her master, but she sat with crossed legs. Her boots stood next to her, and on top of them lay her cloak in a crumpled pile. Her face was a deep map of strain and lack of sleep, but she did not dare complain.  
The third occupant of the woman was an elderly pureblood Sith, her black hair arranged neatly in a series of rolls. She wore a simple tunic, the sleeves rolled up, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. She stared at Zayetana for a moment, her red eyes shifting to Jaesa only briefly. Then she left the room, her feet making no sound as she moved into the corridor of the stronghold.

She found Quinn pacing the length of the corridor, his footfalls muted by the thick rugs on the floor. He, too, was the picture of distress – uniform jacket unbuttoned at the collar, wrinkles across the stiff fabric, still in his boots, with the shadow of the late hour on both cheeks. At sight of her, he paused, falling into a stiff posture, head held high. But the exhaustion in his bright blue eyes betrayed him.

“Lord Muurina,” he greeted her.

“Captain, you will be no use to your wife when she begins her delivery if you’ve run yourself into a shadow,” the elderly Sith murmured, closing the distance between him. “She is still able to maintain her communion with the child, but that will not last.”

“I’ll be fit to deliver the child.” Quinn’s brow furrowed in disapproval.

“No, you won’t. Vowrawn fainted during the birth of our second child –“ she began.

“ – I heard that,” interrupted a cultured voice from the other room.

“ – because he refused to eat or drink while I labored.” Muurina shot an irritated gaze at the wall that separated herself and her husband.

“Let it go on record that I offered Captain Quinn a meal, paid for my me, and he has yet to even look at the bottle of Korriban Black that we brought him as a gift.” Vowrawn’s voice sounded almost bored. He slipped around the corner, standing in the doorway between the front room and the corridor beyond. “Speaking of our children, one stands guard of the building, one is at the lift, and young Angarahad is just outside of the door. I’ll relieve Angarahad in an hour, the twi’lek will take the lift, and the talz will terrify passers-by at the door.”

Broonmark snorted from his place in the shadows, but did not comment further.

“By the stars, man, are you armed in your own home?” Vowrawn’s gaze temporarily averted to the blaster at Quinn’s belt. “I told you, I intend to pay you and Wrath back, in full, for saving my life. I’ve put my own children on watch, and lent you the most skilled Sith medic in ten systems to aid in the birth of your own child. Go take that thing off and eat something.”

“My lords, I’m not hungry.” Quinn protested, the frustration on his face a demonstration that he clearly knew he’d lost the argument.

“You know,” Muurrina looked down at her wrinkled, red hands. “I am quite capable of forcing you to relax. Don’t make me control your mind.”

Quinn huffed a sigh, looking toward the bedroom. The silence unnerved him. Every birth he had attended was full of noise, grunts and cries and the shuffling of equipment. But he had never delivered the child of a Sith lord before. And he had never been a father before.

The idea caused his empty stomach to lurch, and he tasted acid at the back of his throat. Then, in that same moment, he reminded himself that he was being foolish. Vowrawn was here, with his family – two Sith Lords and his three Apprentice children. As were all of the members of Zayetana’s inner circle. She was safe. She was being tended to. And an empty cot awaited the birth of their daughter, as did all of the possible and appropriate trappings. If they were so safe, why did he feel like posting himself at the door, teeth and blaster bared?

No. He needed to relax.

“Very well,” he conceded, giving the two elderly Sith a polite bow. “I’ll…have a sandwich.”

“Have two,” Vowrawn said in a soft voice. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to indent the stiff fabric. “I’ll uncork the Korriban Black for you. You’ll have a stiff drink, you’ll be revived, you’ll be ready for the most common vigil in the galaxy – that of a new father being sentinel over his family.”

“Wrath is strong and healthy. She can feel your child in the Force. These are good signs, Captain.” Muurina’s voice lost its soft threat. Sipping her tea, she started back toward the master bedchamber.

Exhaustion replaced itself with a sudden and powerful surge of pride. “Shevawn. Her name will be Shevawn,” said Quinn, his brow unfurrowing. A corner of his lips twitched in a suppressed smile. Oh, she was coming, she was on her way, and he’d meet her, at last, in just a few passing hours.

“After Darth Muse.” Vowrawn sighed softly, stepping back and away from Quinn. “Oh, if only Muse was still alive. She would be so proud. Ah, she was formidable. She stepped into a room, and all would take notice – even before she became a Lord of the Sith. But enough of an old man’s rambling. Go on, Quinn.”

Quinn nodded his head, turned, and headed for the kitchen. On the way, he paused a few seconds to peer into the open room that had been allocated for the baby. In that moment, it was clean and tidy. He had assembled the cot, made it up, and folded every visible bit of cloth himself. He had painted the walls. He had tied a bright red bow around a stuffed jungle cat and placed it on a shelf filled with picture books. He could have asked one of the droids to take care of these duties for him, but then these gestures would have held none of the meaning.

He was not Force-sensitive. But he was a father. He could provide, nurture, and love. He could care for his mate until she was strong enough to return to her full, awe-inspiring power.

Moving to the kitchen, Quinn stopped in the doorway once he viewed the occupants. Vette held up her head with one hand as she sipped on a steaming cup of caf. Pierce stood at one of the counters, cutting meat into fine slices.

“You want greens on your sandwich?” Pierce grunted.

“Mm, yeah, extra,” said Vette. She looked up at Quinn, but said nothing.

It was the silence that caused Pierce to turn around, butcher knife shining in one of his large fists. He looked down at the knife, and across the room at Quinn; the symbolism of this gesture was not lost on either man. Then, with a shrug, he returned to his duties, removing a bone from the pile of chopped meat. The bone landed in the nearby rubbish bin with a thud.

“How’s she doing?” Vette asked, her gaze tired but hopeful.

“Well,” said Quinn. “She’s in pain, but she and Lord Muurina insist that the meditation keeps it at bay. It won’t be long now.” He crossed the room, considered the fact that Pierce’s sheer bulk blocked the food cooler, and decided against that course of action. He chose instead to take up a clean mug and fill it with fresh caf, adding a shake of powdered dairy substitute.

“Here you are, then, Vette.” Pierce only needed to pivot on one foot to place a neatly assembled sandwich on the empty plate next to Vette’s elbow. It had been cut in half, the scent of the roasted meat filling the air of the crisp kitchen.

Quinn’s mouth watered, but he stood his ground next to the caf machine, drinking it without comment.

“Thanks so much. I’m starving. Wow, look at this thing.” Vette took up half of the sandwich, examining it with a degree of reverence. “Looks like a professional chef made it.”

“Long story short, I did a stint in a camp mess once,” said Pierce. He returned to the task of meat chopping, throwing away another bone. “Wasn’t happy about it. But the soldiers liked my cooking. Gotta make it look good, so people want to tear it apart. They’ll be your biggest fan, because you fed em.” He paused to take two slices of bread, assembling another sandwich with large and nimble fingers.

“Well, right now? I’m your biggest fan. Mm.” Vette began to take large bites of her own, rolling her eyes as she chewed. “Oh…this is...just amazing…” she managed, her voice muffled.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Pierce quipped. Then he added another sandwich to a clean plate and, without another word, slid it across the counter. It scraped its way to a stop next to Quinn.

Quinn looked from the plate to Pierce’s back; the Lieutenant had busied himself with the business of cleaning up his mess, using a rag to wipe away the bits of meat and bone. On one hand, it was Pierce that had made the sandwich. On the other, Quinn’s stomach decided to take that moment to grumble audibly.

“I thought you loathed me, Lieutenant,” said Quinn.

“Affirmative, Captain.” Pierce wiped the crumbs from the counter directly into the rubbish bin. “You’re a dick. But you’re Wrath’s dick. If you fold from the hunger, she’ll come out of that bed to kill me.”

“Glad you have your priorities in order.” Vette winked at Pierce.

Sighing, Quinn reached for the sandwich. “Fair enough,” he said, taking a bite from one of the corners. He found the meat not only juicy, but filled with flavor, complimented by the crisp, fresh greens. He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

Quinn and Vette ate in silence, both staring at opposite walls. Upon finishing with the cleaning, Pierce poured himself a fresh cup of caf and settled into a chair. Outside of the kitchen came the faint mumbling of conversation and a few remarks from Broonmark. The front door opened and closed twice, an obvious changing of the guard. And then, Quinn caught the sound of Zayetana’s voice, strained and exhausted, but not screaming or moaning in pain.

He finished his sandwich and moved out of the kitchen, still chewing, listening hard at the sounds coming from the bedroom. When he heard Lord Muurina counting, he quickened his pace, his heart leaping in his chest. Zayetana was ready. It was time. It was time.

“Hold her other leg,” Muurina said to Jaesa. Both women sat on the bed, on either side of his pale, sweat-covered wife. Beneath them lay a cloth already stained with blood but – Quinn reminded himself that this was normal and expected, that he could set up a transfusion at a moment’s notice, that Jaesa and Zayetana had the same blood type and the young apprentice was more than willing to give as much blood as needed to sustain her lord, even leading to her death.

Sith. They always found a way to be unsettling, even when they proposed the most endearing selflessness.

“I’m here.” Quinn’s fingers moved to the collar of his jacket, crisply unbuttoning buttons and unfastening decorations, revealing the plain grey shirt that lay beneath. He discarded the jacket with less care than usual, insignia jingling as they dangled from a chair. His head buzzed almost uncomfortably as he took to the edge of the bed, reaching up to grasp Zayetana’s hand in a brief squeeze.

“She’s coming,” murmured Wrath, her breathing hard and loud. “I can feel her.”

“You’re doing very well, Master,” said Jaesa. She held one of Zayetana’s muscular legs in one arm, but the other touched the Wrath’s sweat-slick forehead. “There’s nothing you can’t do.”

For a moment, Quinn forgot himself. He’d seen her injured before, in severe pain, even unconscious and unstable, but seeing her like this threw him into a conflict he could not navigate. Half naked, blond hair’s wisps sticking to her face, the sweat running and her face drawn from exhaustion and pain. He did not want to release her fingers, and had to force himself to pry his own away from hers, to concentrate on his training. Drawing out a scanner, he began to take a variety of readings. “Fully engaged,” he said in a low voice almost to himself.

“I don’t need a scanner to see that,” said Muurina. “Her body is acting accordingly. You can push when you’re ready, Lord Wrath.”

“I….am…” Zayetana bared her teeth, fingers balling up the padding beneath her in a sign of her effort, yellow eyes squeezing shut for the length of her effort.

“Good, good. Tana, you’re doing well –“ Quinn caught himself. Well, so much for the discretion of their pet names. He wiped away a droplet of sweat from his own forehead in the crook of his elbow. There were too many people in their bedchamber, and it was far too stuffy for his comfort. “Jaesa, do check the circulators. Lower the temperature at least two degrees.”

“It’s hot in here,” groaned Zayetana. “I…oh…” She drove a balled fist into the mattress, fixing her gaze on the ceiling, as another contraction hit.

Jaesa rose up, setting her lord’s leg back on the bed. “Right away.” She moved off with a swish of robes.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven –“ Quinn counted, watching for signs of change.

The minutes ticked by as the room’s heat dissipated, as did the scent of fresh blood. Jaesa returned and sat at her master’s side. Muurina dabbed Zayetana’s forehead with a cool cloth, her voice almost musical as she recited the Sith code: “Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength…”

“Passion –“ Wrath lifted her head, looking into her husband’s eyes. “Through passion, I gain strength. Passion is my strength. It sustains me. It always has, it always will. I – ah!”

The bedside table rumbled as Zayetana, for the first time in the passing hours, groaned out loud. Quinn let his instinct guide his hands beneath the bloodied infant sliding out of his wife’s body, crying already without intervention, fists curled against her tiny chest. Tears burned Quinn’s eyes as he laughed out loud, wrapping her immediately in a white blanket. He ticked off the steps in his muddled thoughts, one after another: he needed to hand the child off so that his hands could be freed for the clamping of the umbilical cord. But he could not make himself put this beautiful, thick-haired newborn in her mother’s waiting arms. He stared at the tiny face, still smeared with her mother’s fluids, the eyes tightly closed, fists jerking in outrage.

“Shush, shush, Shivawn,” he murmured, stroking his fingers over her forehead and face. “Papa’s here.”

“I’ll finish with the afterbirth, clean her, and heal any contusions.” Muurina patted Quinn’s arm in an attempt to gain his attention. “Congratulations, Lord Wrath…Captain.”

“Malavai.” Zayetana rested back against the pillows that Jaesa tucked beneath her head, and then watched as her apprentice silently took a path through the room, pausing to make a soft and tender noise as she touched Shivawn’s cheek, and then made her exit, closing the door behind her. “Let me see her, please.”

The infant calmed almost immediately at the sound of her mother’s voice, opening her swollen eyelids. Her eyes were blue, inquisitive, and alert; Quinn found himself captivated and, remembering that newborn babies had such poor vision, held her closer to his face. A tiny hand batted at his nose.

“You’ll have plenty of time to bond later,” said Muurina.

Zayetana, however, had fallen silent, causing Quinn to look down at her. Her eyes were half-closed, and she held a bottle of water in one hand, which she soundly ignored, as it was still sealed. Her yellow eyes shined with tears. She nodded at the elderly Sith, who quietly took her leave for a few private moments.

“Your father would have been so proud,” she mumbled, her smile filled with exhaustion. But it seemed, in the moment, she found a sustaining exhilaration. She held out her arms, the fabric of her shirt clinging to her arms, translucent where the sweat had soaked through.

“As would your mother.” Quinn sniffled, then knelt beside the bed, tucking Shivawn into Zayetana’s waiting arms. His hands finally free, he used them to brush the tears from his eyes, to watch his beloved’s first interaction with their child.  
And he found innocence there, simple love and devotion; beauty that Quinn would have never gleaned that the Sith would ever know, even in private, but how real and raw it was. How much of the oft-chanted passion that Wrath’s tired gaze held. “Oh, you’re so small,” she breathed, brushing a kiss over the tiny head, using the side of the blanket to wipe away the fluids from her face. “And beautiful. Look at you. You have your father’s eyes.”


End file.
